


For Where Your Treasure Is, There Will Your Heart Be Also

by allonsy_gabriel



Series: Another 51 [16]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Wears Tartan Socks, Crowley Has Feelings (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, References to Shakespeare, Slow Dancing, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Waxing Poetic About The Nature of Love, listen to unforgettable by nat king cole, please, so soft, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 06:26:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20925638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsy_gabriel/pseuds/allonsy_gabriel
Summary: Crowley was there when they laid the first stone in Giza. He was there when the final brick was placed on the wall in Liaoning. He witnessed the steady growth of the glass and steel that made up the London skyline.He watched as Rome was built, not in a day, and saw the bricks that were laid every minute.He watched as an angel placed book after dusty old book onto an ornate wooden bookshelf.A home, as Crowley was finding out, also took time to build.





	For Where Your Treasure Is, There Will Your Heart Be Also

**Author's Note:**

> guys guys guys  
i've been wanting to write this for ages  
i actually am very proud of this one  
please enjoy

Crowley was there when they laid the first stone in Giza. He was there when the final brick was placed on the wall in Liaoning. He witnessed the steady growth of the glass and steel that made up the London skyline.

He watched as Rome was built, not in a day, and saw the bricks that were laid every minute.

He watched as an angel placed book after dusty old book onto an ornate wooden bookshelf.

A home, as Crowley was finding out, also took time to build.

Not the actual brick and mortar of it, no—they’d found their little cottage by the sea quite quickly, actually, almost as if  _ t  _ had been waiting for  _ them _ —but all the other things. The pictures and paintings and houseplants and comfy chairs and old dishes and sculptures that certain angels didn’t approve of and the memories and the emotions, all those things that truly made a place a home—all of those settled in with time.

“Oh, isn’t this just the most  _ lovely _ song?” Aziraphale asked, turning on his heel to face Crowley, who was draped across their sofa ( _ their _ sofa, because they shared these things, now—things like sofas and beds and lamps and  _ space _ ).

It  _ was _ a nice song, really, even if the quality of the music was subpar due to the fact that it was played from a  _ record  _ on a bloody  _ gramophone _ .

_ Unforgettable, in every way. And forevermore, that’s how you’ll stay _ .

“We went and saw him, don’t you remember?” Aziraphale continued. He was swaying, just a bit, rocking back and forth on his tartan-socked feet (the angel’s wardrobe change was still something of a shock to Crowley, after so many years of seeing Aziraphale wear the same thing, but the demon wasn’t complaining; he quite liked the more relaxed style—at that moment, Aziraphale was wearing a cream coloured cable knit jumper over a tartan button-down, a pair of corduroys, and, of course, his tartan socks, and Crowley was a bit mad with it). “That one evening, back in 1952, was it? He sang at that jazz club you liked so much.”

It wasn’t the club Crowley had liked so much as the way Aziraphale had lit up when they went. The joy in the air, it powered Aziraphale up like a battery. The angel had been  _ effervescent _ , and Crowley had basked in it like a reptile in the sun.

“Mmm,” Crowley hummed, smiling to himself as Aziraphale muttered along to the music.

“Maybe we ought to go again, sometime. Surely there’s—there must be  _ something _ like that, nowadays. It’s only been, what, 65 years?” Aziraphale asked.

“_You_ want to go clubbing?” Crowley asked skeptically.

“Oh, no, nothing like— _ really _ , Crowley, could you imagine,  _ me _ —just because I worked in Soho, really—don’t be ridiculous,” Aziraphale said, rolling his eyes. “But, I don’t suppose—well, dancing could be nice. I’ve never really tried before, you know. It’s not exactly  _ angelic _ .”

Crowley did know. Crowley knew that  _ that _ was a lie, the most blatant one since the angel’s insistence that  _ really, Crowley, he was stuffed, simply couldn’t eat another bite _ at dinner earlier in the evening.

Crowley knew all about gavottes and discreet gentlemen’s clubs in Portland Place.

Crowley  _ knew  _ Aziraphale. Knew him in all the ones you could know someone. He’d built that knowledge with the most reverent care, each stone in the Temple of Aziraphale placed with the utmost precision. His understanding of his angel was the Notre Dame, the Taj Mahal, the Parthenon, the Pantheon.

It was a thousand trees in a forest that Crowley himself had planted.

Crowley knew Aziraphale, so when the angel said  _ dancing could be nice _ , when he turned those bright, brilliant, blue eyes upon Crowley and twisted his lips into the slightest pout, Crowley knew what was being said.

He sighed, rolled his eyes, and pushed himself up off the sofa.

He was incredibly, ridiculously, and (although he’d never say it, never in a million, billion years, not even if he had to stare down Satan himself— _ again _ )  _ ineffably _ fond of his angel.

Some might’ve even called it something else, something with four letters, something beginning with  _ L _ , something that had been put into too many words over too many centuries by too many men.

Some might’ve said it  _ never did run smooth _ , that it was done  _ not wisely, but too well _ .

Some might’ve.

Crowley never did.

He knew, and he understood, that nothing so trivial as a single word could contain the masses that was the thing he felt for the Angel of the Eastern Gate, with his ridiculous, unnecessary glasses and his halo of golden, gossamer curls.

“Angel,” he said (for if there ever  _ was  _ a word that could even  _ begin _ to hold the weight of his feelings, it was that one), “would you do me the  _ honour _ of granting me this dance?”

Aziraphale took his hand (he always did, these days—he took all that Crowley offered him, and he took it without hesitation, and Crowley _knew_) and smiled as Crowley pulled him close.

Neither of them were any good at dancing, as it turned out. Aziraphale was stiff and jerky, picking his knees up too high with every step. Crowley was altogether too loose, clumsy and fumbling over his feet as his hips twisted out of time with the rest of him.

But they managed.

And as they stumbled along together, leaning into each other’s arms, the both of them laughing at their own absurdity, the gramophone continued to play.

_ That’s why, darling, it’s incredible that someone so unforgettable thinks that I am unforgettable, too. _

Building a home took time.

It was a good thing, then, that they had the rest of eternity ahead of them.

**Author's Note:**

> please tell me what you thought! this is very short but I'm so happy with it omg


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